Forge.

.

~Day Three:

Kingsley Shacklebolt's office was large and elegant, and Draco had felt thoroughly out of place all the way up, in his t-shirt and jeans, surrounded by people bustling about in smart formalwear.
But that hardly mattered, really. Not when he had Dittany in his bag, and Granger by his side, and hope – marvellous, sunlit hope – in his heart.

Shacklebolt strode in from a back door.

He was the kind of man who demanded attention. Dressed in a pin-striped suit, he was dark, bald, tall and broad-shouldered, and he wore a single gold earring in one ear.

"Ms. Granger," he boomed, gesturing for them to sit while settling behind his desk, "I have been looking forward to meeting you."

"Thank you, Minister," she replied, "This is Draco Malfoy. Look, sir, I'm going to get straight to the point: Diagon needs your help."

He sighed, squaring his shoulders and looking her right in the eye. "I am aware of what's been going on. Of course. Dolores Umbridge is a ruthless, reprehensible tyrant, and I can assure you that leaders of all nations have been considering taking strict action against her."

"Considering?" Draco sputtered, "You've been considering? She launched a campaign to eradicate the entire Magical population and you've been considering? It's been three years and you're still considering taking action?"

"You have to understand," Shacklebolt said placatingly, "We thought she had managed to wipe you all out. The only ones that remained were the so-called Lords of Anarchy, and we absolutely could not openly support a terrorist organisation."

"But we aren't terrorists!" Granger cried, "And we aren't all dead! We've been sitting underground, struggling to survive, with no relief in sight–"

"I see that now–"

"Three years, sir! Three years!"

Kingsley closed his eyes with seemingly authentic regret. "I am so terribly sorry for what you've gone through. It is... heinous, horrific to say the least. I can assure you, had we known – had we even the slightest inkling–"

"And now that you do know?" Draco sneered.

"Of course we cannot directly intervene, but you have our unconditional support. Tell me what you need from us."

Granger clasped her hands together and leaned forward. "We're going to march to the Plaza. We're going to reclaim our home. I already know that the majority of Diagon will be with us–"

"As will the people of Grimmauldia," Kingsley jumped in with confidence, "We will march with you, stand by the border, swarm the lake. Our journalists will be on site to bring news of your march to the world."

"There's still a chance that she'll order the forces to attack us," said Draco gravely.

Kingsley pulled open a drawer and placed a simple, pocket-sized remote on his desk. "This," he explained, "Is a neutraliser. It'll shut down the dampers. My team has been developing it for the past eight months. If you can promise you will only use defensive spells–"

"We promise!" Draco and Granger quickly said.

"Then it is yours."

It was two in the afternoon when they left the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, which meant that they had ten hours before they had to meet Griphook at the harbour.

Granger tugged at Draco's arm, abuzz with a strange excitement.

"Let's pretend we're on holiday."

So they spent their time wandering among the old, historical buildings of Grimmauldia. She informed him that the architecture dated back to the twelfth century, and he listened rapt as she explained the significance of nearly every structure. She seemed to know everything.
They sat in a pretty little park and watched a man conjure balloon animals for children. They ate a hearty meal at an outdoor restaurant beside a stream. They visited a book shop and a music shop and a general store from where Granger picked up a dozen or so batteries.
They went to a wandmaker's just to play around with spells. Eventually, they were thrown out by the owner, after Draco inadvertently, in his enthusiasm, reduced a storage cabinet to dust.

They went back to the stream to watch the sun set, while eating ice cream and debating the merit of using weather modification charms to counter the effects of global warming. He called her an officious cow and she didn't speak to him for twenty minutes. So he bought her a bouquet of colour changing flowers from a crumpled old woman who turned to Granger and said, "Oh forgive the lad. Look at him, so handsome."

They stopped by the cinema to sit through half of the most inane high-action film Draco had ever seen. He kept up a steady stream of snarky commentary to make her laugh, and they walked out at the interval, with her clutching his arm as she continued to cackle. After dinner, they sat on the wide marble steps of the National Museum of Grimmauldia and observed the bustling traffic as if they were just any old pair of lovers, intertwined, watching life go by. Steady, regular, everyday life.

When the clock tower chimed at midnight, they were at the harbour. She looked out over the water, seeking their boat, but he looked behind, at the little lakeside huts that were the prologue to the city. The day had been like a mad dream, and now it was time to wake up. He could already feel memories of the past few hours desaturating and fading.

Griphook wrangled another hunner from him.

"Well, excuse me–" Granger began, compelling Draco to pinch her side and tell her to shut up.

He didn't need Griphook to tell him when they were back in Diagon. He felt the absence of Magic in the air. An ineffable emotion erupted in his chest – agitation like wildfire, dread, thick like swamp water, anticipation like the moment before a perfect kiss. It was too much everything and he tugged at his collar, unable to breathe.

"Granger," he gasped.

"Malfoy," she murmured, and pressed her lips to his.

It was brief and unstable, but it centred him.

Stan was waiting by the magnolia grove as he had promised. With a cavalier greeting he asked if everything had gone well. Then he snuck them over to the same old alley, where Ern and his taxi were parked.

Another crazy journey – two hours of being knocked left and right as Ern zoomed across the city. They were stopped at a checkpoint at the Plaza, but thankfully there were no hobbling cretins around this time. They did however, in the dim light, catch a glimpse of the infamous Pettigrew as he shone torchlight into the car.

"'Ello, Peter," Stan sang, "Doin' awright?"

"Fine," Pettigrew squeaked. He stepped back and motioned for them to carry on.

They finally stopped in yet another murky lane, a few kilometres away from the border. Draco left it up to Granger to properly thank their chaperons, and to return Hagrid's crinkle-eyed smile when he rolled over in his truck moments later.

"Glad teh see yeh made it out fine," he lauded in a low voice.

Draco was running on auto-pilot, like he was moving in slow motion through a vacuum. Sitting amid rattling cargo, he let Granger rest her head on his shoulder and Fang drool all over his lap. They were stopped and he dutifully hid when a guard opened the container for a check-up.

Then they were back at the edge of the forest.

"Thanks so much, Mr. Hagrid," said Granger while he nodded along.

"Take care o' yehselves," he replied.

He drove away, kicking up a cloud of dust.

Granger pulled out her bottle of Felix Felicis, and between the two of them, they emptied it.

Draco's chaotic emotions finally settled the moment they were back at the summit. They paused to take one last look at Diagon and its network of lights, and quite suddenly, he was whole again. His chest swelled with air and hope and a sensation that felt like: YES.

Just simply yes.

"This is it, Malfoy," said Granger tremulously, "All set to upturn the world?"

With a ridiculous, flippant shrug he replied, "Yeah. Why not? Viva la Magia."

"My," she grinned, "Don't you sound optimistic."

And on the top of that mountain, at the foot of a revolution, Draco kissed her.

.

.

Well, that's all for now. I'm seriously thinking about expanding this fic... But only after I finish Détraquée, of course.

Thank you for reading!